Becoming Judas
by gabby silang
Summary: Sark. Vaughn. Games.
1. Peter

Title: Becoming Judas  
  
Author: gabby silang  
  
Rating: PG-13 for language, later chapters rated individually.  
  
Feedback: I worship the gods of feedback. Don't you want to be worshipped?  
  
Disclaimer: JJ& Co. owns all, I can only borrow, play, and put them back where I found them.  
  
Distribution: Free to any who want it, just tell me first.  
  
A/N: Title stolen from an incredible x-files fic by darkstar. Because it's too catchy to only be used once, and because I love that fic so much I could cry.  
  
  
  
A Prologue from After.  
  
I won't lie. That's what I promise now. I won't pretend I didn't recognize him, know who he was, know what he'd done, know what I was doing, the lines I was crossing, the everything I was risking. I won't say I couldn't have known better. I won't say I won't do it again.  
  
  
  
He was easy. Doubtlessly he'll tell himself that he put up an admirable fight, but that won't last long. He's utterly transparent. I could see from the way he walked, the way his strides were long and his hand went through his hair-- anyone could tell he was a slut. And I could tell, from the way he watched my hands, the way he balked at my accent, could tell right away that he wanted me before the thought ever crossed my mind. And from the tension in his forehead I knew it had been a while. He was gagging for it. He was as easy as they come.  
  
  
  
  
  
Part the First: Sark.  
  
We had her, had him, had the whole Agency. We had them wrapped around our little finger and begging for mercy. It was easier than even I'd suspected. A bit of surveillance, a couple forceful interviews, and one taped conversation from a large, dreary warehouse and we had the means. All we had to do was ask.  
  
I was given the honor of conducting the whole affair personally. And authorized to show as much a sense of humor as I deemed fit. So I told her handler first.  
  
Rang him myself.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Agent Vaughn?"  
  
"Speaking."  
  
"Sounding rather tense. Are you very busy this evening?"  
  
".Who is this?"  
  
"Mr. Vaughn, you wound me! I know you've heard my voice before. Of course, those shitty CIA a/v transmitters likely didn't do me justice. However, I would hope you'd at least have the courtesy to remember the strapping young lad you handcuffed, and then left high and dry. Ms. Bristow is right-you are such a tease."  
  
Silence on the other end. Poor bastard.  
  
"Go on, say it already."  
  
"Where is Sydney?"  
  
"Tucked safe in bed at home. Would you care to know what she's wearing? A rather complementing little number, I must admit-"  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
Down to business only happens when I say it happens.  
  
"Well, I'd say I wanted you to at least call, but you left before I even gave you my number."  
  
"Damnitt, Sark-"  
  
"Oh, now, don't get so familiar. That's Mr. Sark to you. And you will be meeting me later this evening in that industrial-end, sad excuse for a rendezvous point that you and Ms. Bristow are so fond of. 10:00. Don't keep me waiting, Agent Vaughn. I get nasty when made to wait."  
  
"I'll be there."  
  
"And Mr. Vaughn? I wouldn't wake Ms. Bristow if I were you. Dear thing needs her beauty sleep."  
  
  
  
  
  
It was unbelievable how little he argued. I'd seen the formidable anger in the man surface before, but on the phone then he'd sounded tired, almost ready and expecting this. That wouldn't do at all. The situation required complication. The mouse is never allowed to become bored before the cat. And I had all the time in the world to make this more interesting. 


	2. Andrew

Part the Second: Vaughn.  
  
We were so screwed. So undeniably, unavoidably screwed. Sark may be a damn good liar, but there was no hiding the sincere cockiness in his voice. If he were bluffing he'd be more modest. He'd done the legwork, and I was his victory lap. It had to happen some time. Check and mate, and all that was left to do was for me to put my head on the chopping block. But better mine than Syd's, and so, like the prancing idiot I am, I went to meet him, alone, without leaving so much as a note. I wouldn't have known what to say, anyway.  
  
------  
  
No matter how many times I see, hear, or hear of this man, his youth will always strike me. I won't call him accomplished, but I can be certain that he's packed a lot into a short time. His feet are up on the table, our table, and he's smirking already. I hope he dies soon.  
  
"I appreciate your punctuality, Mr. Vaughn."  
  
"Enough to jump off a bridge in gratitude?"  
  
"Wishful thinking. How very American of you."  
  
His tongue is tripping around words and it distracts me. I hate the fucking British.  
  
"Just get down to it. What you want. Why I'm here."  
  
"What I want is a rather long list to start now. I want a more comfortable chair, I want more creativity and less modernity in modern architecture, I want a shiny new car.perhaps something German. As to why you're here," his thumbs slowly circle each other as his hands rest on his lap, "I'd considered going to someone of a bit more importance first, but thought it would be a much more interesting study in human nature to offer you a choice of sorts. After all, I am an avid student of humanity."  
  
Of sorts. "What's the choice?"  
  
"Well, Mr. Vaughn, there are all manner of ways in which my employer and I would love to see you little operation, and that of Arvin Sloane, crumble. We are also in a position to put into action a number of plans that would disintegrate both of those quite completely and expediently." He leans back farther, "But that would be like drinking a fine wine from a shot glass. All nuance is lost. I believe that it would be a much more profitable endeavor if we were to, well, use you."  
  
He smiles, slow and lazy. A poker player with the perfect hand.  
  
"So I can either go home and wait for either your goons or SD-6's to kill me in my sleep, or let things continue as they are, but funnel all Sydney's intel to you? Those are my choices?"  
  
"Don't be so fatalistic. I'm sure they'd wake you before shooting."  
  
My hand runs through my hair and I watch his thumbs move, sending me messages. They'd kill her father first, then me, then her friends; they'd give her time to think she could run, then they'd run her into the ground. Make her pay for being born and the mess it left.  
  
I'd had dreams about this moment.  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Fine? So I'll give Arvin a ring, then?" He pulls out a cell phone.  
  
"No, I'll give you your damn intel." He arches an eyebrow with the beginning of a smile, "I won't tell Sydney anything."  
  
The smile is completed.  
  
"That's the kind of thing my employer likes to hear from her constituents. I'll be in touch, Michael."  
  
He leaves, brushing a hand over my shoulder as he passes. My neck feels hot, and I feel dirty for being associated in any way with Irina. I just feel dirty.  
  
-----  
  
So it started, and by the time I realized all the implications of what I'd agreed to, there was no backing out. I was under his thumb, completely. I was helping the woman who killed my father, and all for the sake of her daughter. Even that isn't true. In part, it was all for my own, pathetic life. I didn't want to die. And so, somehow, I'd have to live with this, and with everything Sark wanted me to do. 


	3. James, son of Zebedee

Part the Third: Sark  
  
I'd underestimated the benefits of having Sydney in my pocket. It was made even sweeter by her ignorance of the fact. A blind woman with total faith in her sight, running into walls and never realizing they were there-my dog. Vaughn, he was my bitch on a choke collar. Nothing made my day better than watching that man squirm.  
  
  
  
We're in a CIA conference room watching Ms. Bristow on satellite feed from Russia, and the irony is delicious. By my count she's broken eight laws on this operation already, three of them international, and been at risk of death for twenty-two minutes and counting. She's running scared at the moment from a shiny-headed man I've named Boris and his svelte companion, Natasha. The link switches to a different camera and I see that the look of equal parts fear and determination is upon her, along with the somewhat surprised look that is purely Sydney; as if after everything she's been through, she is still shocked to find herself pursued by armed guards. Personally, I'm more shocked at her ability to sprint in knee-high boots and a handkerchief of a skirt.  
  
Mr. Vaughn is glancing rapidly between her image and street maps of Vladivostok, spitting directions to her over the com link with an urgency that suggested that he was the one running for his life. It's nearly endearing. Not quite, though.  
  
"If I wanted a chase scene I'd watch 'The French Connection,' Mr. Vaughn. Speed this up, if you would be so kind."  
  
He grips the mic with white knuckles "I'm doing the best I can! It's not all that easy with you sitting on my shoulder and whispering in my ear."  
  
That deserves a laugh. I give him an impatient sneer "Just steer her to the waterside. There will be transportation for her there."  
  
He has a surprised look too. Perhaps they practice together.  
  
"Well why the hell didn't you say that before?" his hand is off the mic without waiting for an answer "Syd? I got you, okay, just veer right into the alley on your right, then immediate left. You'll come to a dock, there's a boat for you there."  
  
Crackling and breathy "A.boat? Why didn't.you-"  
  
"I was just told too. Just get there and you're home free."  
  
And in front of me, no less. The man has no shame. He'll have to be taught.  
  
"I'll bet you say that to all the double agents."  
  
Hand on mic again "Just let me do my job, Sark," and off "You're almost there Syd, that's your turn."  
  
"Just remember who you're working for, Mr. Vaughn." He twitches. I win.  
  
"Which, one, Vaughn?" the reception's almost shot. He throws a look at me, annoyed to still need my willing assistance.  
  
"Which boat, Sark?"  
  
"What was that?"  
  
He's practically simmering "Which boat please.Mr. Sark?"  
  
Gods, this is fun.  
  
"Last one. On the right. It's called Devotchka."  
  
He warbles it back to her like a passage from the Bible, and she's drinking it in like prophet's words. I'll have to draw this out longer next time- they're not nearly desperate enough.  
  
Boris and Natasha are half the dock back by the time Sydney is churning up the sea at a completely un-stealthy high speed. The camera feeds shut off as she's lost from view, on her way to the alternate extraction point. Agent Vaughn slouches in the chair, his strings seemingly cut. I feel the need to say something.  
  
"Well, that was sloppy."  
  
  
  
Thinking back, that probably wasn't the wisest choice of words. Still, if a man can't say what's on his mind then is he really a man at all? Or is he Michael Vaughn? 


	4. John

Part the Fourth: Vaughn  
  
Every hour, every minute, was bringing me closer to my breaking point. I was lying to Sydney day in and day out, and she couldn't even see it in my eyes. As if that wasn't enough to kill me, Sark was an insufferable prick to work for.  
  
  
  
"Sloppy?" I've spun and launched out of my chair in a heartbeat "Maybe if you acted like you had any investment in this at all, things would work a little more efficiently. Every week, every operation, she's been a hair away from being killed!" I can't help it, I'm yelling, I'm walking closer to him, the whole macho bit, and damn, it feels good "Maybe you don't care about Sydney, or the operations, but I know you have something riding on this. Your career to be exact, and if you don't get-"  
  
"That's where you're wrong, Mr. Vaughn." he cuts me off "I don't. Nothing of mine is 'riding on this,' as you put it. Not my career, certainly not my life, not even a bit of monetary gratification." he looks me up and down like I'm lunch "You must understand that yourself and the lovely Agent Bristow are my pet project, kept around only as long as my interest holds."  
  
He heads for the door, and I'm sickened by his freedom of movement in the office. I could handle that my life is his plaything, but Sydney's life, the entirety of the CIA, it's too much.  
  
"This can't last." I tell him "I won't stand for it."  
  
He pauses with hand on the knob "It's a little late for that."  
  
"I don't trust you, you refuse to be of any help while disallowing me to coordinate with our other sources of intel.she's not going to be so lucky one time, and sooner rather than later." It's the first time I've allowed myself to think it. It burns in the pit of my stomach.  
  
"Any intel you could want, I can acquire, and faster than this hulking behemoth of an agency."  
  
"Where is it, then? You don't tell me anything, so how am I supposed to keep her informed enough to keep herself alive?"  
  
"I will dispense to you what is needed when I see fit. Have a good afternoon, Agent Vaughn." And he's out the door.  
  
Fucking bitch-ass whipper-snapping cunt.  
  
Okay, fine. Deep breaths. Deeps breaths and pacing. Everything seems better after deep breaths and pacing. Or maybe sitting. Sweet, calm sitting. Always conducive to rational thought. Because I am. Rational. All this is a set of equations, really. Sydney's life is in my hands. My life is in Sark's. The difference being that I give a damn about Sydney's life, balancing out the first equation. So it would follow that all there is to do is balance out the second. Hold his interest. Make him give a damn.about me. I can do that. I work in intelligence, I'm subtle. He's already called me a tease. I can give him a tease. I can make him give a damn about me.  
  
Fuck.  
  
  
  
Not my personal favorite moment of epiphany. I spent the rest of the workday in that conference room, downing pints of cold decaf, talking to Syd when she checked in from the ride home, planning. I don't know where, but somewhere in that room a barrier was broken through. Things I wouldn't have even considered as options before were viable and sounded completely reasonable. Sure, I could essentially seduce this man who'd done unspeakable things. Sure, I could make him think he was still in control. No problem. None at all. 


	5. Phillip

Phillip  
  
Part the Fifth: Sark  
  
Ms. Bristow's next assignment came in quickly-a prototype of advanced missile targeting software, kept at the headquarters of Peter Hassel, a Danish arms dealer with a taste for excess. In all things. Not the easiest lock to pick, so to speak.  
  
  
  
My briefing is done and Agent Vaughn is acting strangely. I'm aware that he hates me, indeed I encourage it, but today I might go as far as to say that he looks afraid of me. He's jumpy, fidgeting with his tie and making himself look me in the eye. He wants to break and run, it's palpable. It's just a little exciting.  
  
"Is that all?" he says "I do have other work to do."  
  
His forehead is smooth for once and it's the most forced thing I've seen yet.  
  
"Did I say that we were done?" I reach across the desk to take a case file from a stack of them. Brush my palm across his bare forearm. He jerks away. Oh yes. This is good. I flip the file open, circle the desk to stand behind him, plant an arm deliberately on either side of his frame, reading aloud over his shoulder, by his ear.  
  
"Two armed guards at each of five entrances. Rotating parameter patrols in four teams of thee. Visual ID checks at two unavoidable points. Some.uncomfortable fail-safes," he's staring straight ahead "Does that make you nervous, Agent Vaughn?" he's breath is hard and matching my own in pace "Are you nervous about the position I've put you in? Would you like more" his fists are clenched "breathing room?"  
  
"I'm not going to ask you for any favors, Sark." A tight voice.  
  
"Please do! That is what this is all about-doing each other favors," leaning in until I feel his back beneath me, feel his shoulders, feel him wanting to kill me, every second more "Don't you want me to keep up my end of the bargain?"  
  
"What would you give me?" he's shaking with it.  
  
"What is it you want?" in his ear. Almost too easy, this.  
  
A rumbling in his throat "Control."  
  
I laugh, let him feel it hum around him, push off with my hands to move back in front of the desk, see him try to look at me "I'm afraid that's one wish even I cannot grant you. If you do require anything a little less abstract, though, do let me know. I'm sure I could accommodate your needs."  
  
The door clicks behind me, but he follows me in my mind's eye, glowering at my neck, considering the best snapping angle.  
  
I do love my job.  
  
  
  
I'd known before then that my influence on Sydney made Agent Vaughn uncomfortable, but that was the first time that it became evident that my very presence unnerved him. It was a heady feeling, that kind of power over another man. Something I'd be sure to quickly exploit. 


End file.
